


Diplomatic Temptation

by EqualAndOppositeRedaction



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe, Bottom Keith (Voltron), Bottom Lotor (Voltron), But Mainly Just Porn Though, F/M, M/M, Master/Servant, Porn With Plot, Slavery, Top Allura (Voltron), Top Shiro (Voltron)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-15
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 05:46:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21811042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EqualAndOppositeRedaction/pseuds/EqualAndOppositeRedaction
Summary: AU where the Galra and Alteans never had a war, and instead expanded their respective empires. Earth was made part of the Altean Commonwealth, and Shiro became part of the Altean army. He rose through the ranks, eventually becoming Allura's royal guardianAllura and Shiro have been send to a diplomatic summit on Daibazaal, and after the opening ceremony have retired to their rooms to unwind.... altogether quite a long narrative walk for a short carnal glass of water.
Relationships: Allura/Lotor (Voltron), Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 58





	1. One

Shiro eased himself a few inches deeper into the large tub of hot water, watching the steam rise from it's surface and carry his stress away to mix with the cloudy atmosphere of the bathroom. The byzantine tiled pattern across the walls seemed to shimmer and swim in the heat, and the tens of candles spread around the edges of the room lit the foggy air with a heavy light. Shiro could hear only the steady drip of falling condensation, and the gentle wet pat of feet, as the youth went to refill the oenochoe with more scalding water. 

Shiro had not seen true combat in more than six years, but diplomacy was its own battleground and he felt its after effects throughout his frame. His shoulders were a mess of tension and knots, his brow was involuntarily furrowed, and his hands remained clenched even submerged deep in the bath. But it was hard to hold onto the burdens of the day with the perfumed water drawing its gentle fingers across his skin. He breathed deep - filling his tight chest with air - then let it escape in one long protracted sigh, instantly feeling a little more relaxed. He completed this tiny rite over and again, feeling more at peace with the world with every breath. He continued through the sound of rushing water, as the boy refilled his jug. Continued as he heard the tap shut off and the soft steps resumed their beat across the floor, slower now under the weight of water. Shiro drew one final breath as the servant drew even with his bath and released it only when the boy upended the jug to pour over Shiro's head, down his face and neck, and into the water.

Shiro held his eyes loosely closed - the world momentarily muted by the water that remained in his ears - and felt completely at peace.

Shiro cracked his eyes open to watch as the servant once again padded across the floor to refill his oenochoe. Governor Kolivan had said that Shiro "should find him most intriguing", and Shiro was beginning to find that he agreed. He had been dressed in a bardot top that stopped just short of his midriff and dripped with intricate embroidery of reds and golds and iridescent silver. His shoulders were bare, and the lithe triangles of his shoulder blades drew Shiro's eyes up the short braided ponytail that swung with his steps. Around the boy's neck sat a simple gold loop, perfectly circular, that marked him as a slave of the Galra Empire. The circlet hung loose, with easily a few fingers space between it and the boy's neck.

A casual observer might have mistaken the servant for a human, but there were a few features that gave away his Galra heritage. His limbs were a few inches longer than one would expect for a human his height, and his hands were a little too bulky for a man of his slight breadth. There was a point to his ears, an angularity to his jaw, a pervading feline tinge to all his features that told of his non-human ancestry. There was one clue however that was unmistakable: beneath the waistband of his harem pants, ineffectually masked by the semi-transparent chiffon, his manhood was clearly visible. On fist sight Shiro had been more than a little stunned, and had let his eyes linger for longer than he was proud of. But he'd regained his composure, and now reinspected the boy with a cooler head.

The servant leant forward, rocking forwards slightly on the balls of his feet and bending at the waist to turn on the tap. As he did so his member swung forward past his thigh and into Shiro's view. Though most of the servant's skin was paler, this was richer, darker, purple tinted flesh. Though his proportions were slight, this was substantial and firm. Even flaccid it hung with a material weight that somehow made it feel more real than the rest of him, it shifted the material his harem pants as if it had intention of its own.

The servant eased the tap closed and in one smooth motion picked up the oenochoe, lifted it onto his shoulders and began padding back over the Shiro's bath. Shiro had paid the servant no heed before, but now studied his expression with interest. On the surface the young man's face seemed soft, pliant, and without cunning, but Shiro suspected he could see more than that. There was also pride, resilience, and grit. No matter what this servant was made to do, there was always some secret part of him he kept back, kept whole, that he would never yield. Shiro had been a prisoner of war once, and recognised in the man the same vital internal mantra that allowed someone with an inflexible soul to bend nearly to their limit. This servant's strength in maintaining his composure, in tempering his steel, was likely what had kept him from snapping many years ago. It was what kept him alive.

He drew level with the tub, and began the slow pour of hot water down over Shiro's chest and into the pool. The young man maintained eye-contact with Shiro as he did so, with no indication he was aware of how well Shiro knew what was going on inside his head. The servant's expression was still obedience masking contempt, like perfume concealing a foul smell it could never be fully hidden to someone who was looking. Shiro did not tense his muscles - the servant would see that and suspect something - but he prepared his muscles to tense, letting his thoughts focus on his limbs, letting energy roll into them in readiness

The flow of hot water once again thinned until it was just a stream of drops, and the servant turned to fill the jug once more.

Shiro sprang then. 

He burst up out from the water by the power of his legs alone, thrusting his left hand out and up towards the Servant's circlet and wrapping his fingers tightly round. Shiro's other arm curled round his waist, flicking an arc of steaming water out and immediately soaking the man's insubstantial clothes. He held his position for half a heart-beat, letting it dawn on the man what was happening. The involuntarily servant let go of his oenochoe which seemed to hang in the air in the unreal, time-dilated silence. Then Shiro pulled. Most of his force was directed through the waist, he didn't want to break the servant's neck, only startle him. Shiro heaved him up, in, and down, to land turbulently in the water of the bath, so fast that the splash sounded before the crash of the discarded pot breaking on the floor.

The servant gasped as he hit the water, spluttered as it began to rise up round the edges of his face, and scrabbled desperately at the edges of the tub. His hands found the rim and he braced to wrench himself out; before he stopped, elbows awkwardly cocked, and froze half-submerged in the water. For a split second Shiro had seen the mask drop, and a glimpse of the proud, aggressive man he now held in a tight one armed embrace had shone through. But the man had remembered himself just as quickly, and was already assuming his well-worn facade. He lowered himself back down, sliding deeper into the water and letting it submerge him up to the ribs. When his weight was fully supported by Shiro's chest he relinquished his grasp on the edge of the bath and trailed his fingers in sinuous spirals through the water, up Shiro's chest, and shoulders, and neck, then intertwined his fingers behind Shiro's neck. He stretched his head back to meet eyes with Shiro, lips artfully parting in a mock sigh.

Shiro was not surprised at how quickly the young man regained his composure, nor at his understanding of exactly what Shiro intended. He would be a fool to imagine that the servant had only been intended as a bath hand, or that previous visiting dignitaries had only used him as such. Shiro wanted to know more of the man that hid behind that expertly maintained mask, and over the next month of his diplomatic visit he intended to unpick much more. But these things couldn't be rushed, and if he deviated now there was every chance that the servant would figure out where Shiro's intentions truly lay.

Shiro loosened his left handed grip on the man's neck-ring, and brought it down to meet his right hand at the servant's submerged waist. He swapped it with his right hand that trailed up the man's torso in an echo of his own motion a second ago. Upon reaching the Servant's neck, he looped his fingers under the golden metal and pulled, gently but firmly, down and to the right. The ring settled into the groove above the servant's Adam's apple, and bellow his chin, pressing slightly against his jugular; not enough to cut off breathing, but enough to impede the flow of blood.

Shiro eased the waistband of the servant's trousers away from his hips with his left thumb and brushed the tips of his fingers down the sensitive flesh beneath. He felt the man's hips tremor and tendon's tighten at the sensation. Wasting little time: Shiro pushed his hand through the servant's hair and pitched up, index finger leading, to wrap around his now fully hard cock. He paused for a moment, feeling the now engorged width of it. It was thick enough that Shiro had precious overlap between thumb and middle finger, and he massaged it appreciatively: tightening one finger then the other, rolling pressure up and down the length.

Shiro rubbed the pad of his thumb deftly back and forth across its head; keeping the rest of his fingers completely still. He could see the man struggling to stay still but the occasional flex of the arms, jerk of the hips, tightening of the buttocks next to Shiro's own cock gave him away. Every time the servant shifted Shiro moved his hand to follow, ensuring that the servant had no agency as sensation made its way to the now throbbing cock held in his hands. The man was permitted no release, save for the constant undulating pressure from Shiro's stationary fingers and the constant maddening rubbing at the tip.

The lack of blood to his head and the heat of the water would be taking effect now, Shiro knew. The servant's perspective would narrow, his brain would shut down nerve after oxygen starved nerve so it could focus on the most pressing sensation. By now the man's whole world had condensed down to the space between his legs, he could perceive or think of nothing else. The desperate feeling of pressure would be building too. Each rub of the tip sending electric jolts of feeling down into the base of his cock. Each movement bringing more arousal, but no release; a feeling of constant ecstatic crescendo that built and build and build and threatened never to resolve. A terrible, wonderful ache that made his legs shake and his chest throb.

Shiro stopped all movement, thumb resting dead center of the servant's tip, fingers almost relinquishing their charge. The servant let out a weak cry, shifting feebly under Shiro's grip in a vain attempt to brush himself against the sodden fabric of his trousers, to bring about the desperately needed end. One deft swipe down from Shiro was all it took. The first and final stroke that burst the servant open and let him spill through the bath water. The man made a sound that was half breath half cry, as he thrust himself again and again into Shiro's now yielding hand. 

The room was suddenly very quite, the only sounds were the drip of condensation, the gentle splash of water against the bath, the man's faltering breath, and a sourceless ringing in Shiro's ears. Shiro relinquished the man from his grip, purposefully brushing his hand against the now super sensitive skin he had just held. He pulled himself sharply up, letting the servant collapse into the water from on top of him. The man gave a yelp as he found himself unexpectedly sinking, pulled unexpectedly from his post-coital haze.

Shiro did not look back to the bath as he toweled himself off, nor when he heard the sloshing of water that signaled the man righting himself to look at Shiro, presumably with an expression of unseen outrage. By the time Shiro heard the wet patting of feat in his direction, he was already half way out the door.


	2. Two

This was not Allura’s first diplomatic mission to Daibazaal and although she had gotten used to their art, learned to appreciate their architecture, and had even grown quite fond of their food, she feared she’d never learn to cope with the heat. The commonwealth palace was built on the apex of the domed hemisphere of the planet and was subjected to the full force of the dark red sun that hung menacingly in the sky. She had been silently horrified when she’d first learned that the commonwealth summit would be held at the height of summer: when the sun would not set on the palace for a full three months, baking down in an endless unbearable outpouring of heat.

The rest of Daibazaal: it’s homes, factories, commercial spaces, and parks, were kept cool during this time. Sophisticated air conditioning and thermal shielding fields were as commonplace as lighting. But the palace was different. Here old tradition and ceremony ruled, and they stated that an ability to withstand the heat was one of the many qualities that separated a true leader from the rank and file. Tests of strength and endurance were commonplace throughout Galra high society and dignitaries from Altea needed always to hold their own. Allura had switched out her regular Altea-bound wardrobe of cottons and wool dresses for much lighter silks and synthetic fibres designed specifically for inhospitably high temperatures, all cut into loose fitting flowing shapes that tried their best to keep her cool.

Despite all this, she was still suffering. It had been a long day - the first of 30 - filled with discussions, round-tables, and luncheons with not a spare moment to cool off. The heat had worked its way through her body and eventually rendered her completely insensible. By the last hour all diplomacy had abandoned her and she’d definitely been more rude to the Gentrassi delegate that had been necessary or wise. She’d been so glad when the Galran Minister of the Interior had finally announced that proceedings would be ending for the day and she was free to retire back to her room. Allura and her Crown Protector, Takashi Shirogane had strode out of the room, arm-in-arm, and never looked back. It had been even worse for Shiro of course, his full body armour was a kiln. He’d stopped talking all together a few hours ago, only retaining the composure to stare straight ahead, had not said a word the whole journey back and had offered only an apologetic nod when he’d escorted her to the door of her room a moment ago.

She slouched alone against the other side of the door now, sagging a little at the knees. Out of the eyes of the other dignitaries she had relinquished her composure and groaned openly at the suffocating heat. She levered herself off the door and lurched towards the adjoining bathroom, seizing the edges of the basin and smacking the cold tap fully open. A torrent of warm water gushed out from the faucet pummelling the base of the sink and shooting a swarm of lukewarm droplets up and across her bare arms. She glared down furiously at the sink, hoping that the strength of her disapproval alone might cool the water to a more appropriate temperature. She didn’t know if it was her alchemy or basic plumbing, but after a few seconds the water did start to cool, and she began flinging cupped handfuls of water up onto her face, gasping with appreciation at each impact.

She dropped the plug in, dunking her arms in up to the elbows and letting cold water flow over them and wick the heat away. When the water was level with the top of the sink she shut the tap off, took a deep breath, and plunged her face under the surface. Some excess water spilled over the lip, and jumped a little as it splashed over the bare tops of her feet, welcome though it was. She opened her eyes and watched the few silver hairs that had escaped her bun drift in front of her eyes. For the first time all day she could not feel sweat beading on her brow, or hot dry air scratching at her throat.

She stayed underwater for as long as she was able until eventually she had to come bursting up, letting out a juddering breath and sucking in a fair amount of water as she inhaled again. She looked in the mirror with frustration at what Daibazaal had reducer her to: the heir apparent of the Altean Commonwealth stood drenched and sputtering in a sweat soaked dress; all from a little heat. The rhythmic drip of water from the tip of her nose was all she heard as she glared at herself. She would do better tomorrow.

A new noise broke through the silence. A faint clinking of china emanated from the bedroom. Then a shifting of fabric, the faint creaking of a body shifting in furniture. Whoever was in there, they were not trying to hide their presence. Allura froze in an instant, forgetting the heat and looking for something to defend herself with. Normally Shiro would be staying with her in her room to act as a constant defender, but the Galra took such arrangements as a serious offence. To keep one’s body guard so close was to suggest either that the Galra were unable to adequately guarantee your safety, or that they wanted you dead. Their requirement that they be the ones to ensure Allura’s safety was a well founded one, it was a responsibility that they took seriously and they’d only failed a handful of times in the history of the Galra Empire; but what if this was one of those times.

There was nothing in the bathroom that would be much use as an improvised weapon; the towels and luffas were highly unthreatening. There was a long handled brass fork with bent tines hung on the wall that Allura suspected was a back scratcher, it wouldn’t be much use for offence, but it might be able to parry a few blows while she called for help. She unhooked it, and grasped it in both hands; it would have to do. She pulled the plug and fully opened the taps again, hoping that the sound of water would mask her approach to the door and give her a few much needed milliticks advantage. Allura rounded the door and surveyed the bed chamber in one swift unblinking sweep.

The room had been slightly rearranged since she’d left it in the morning. The far left side of the room was dominated by two great windows which opened into balconies that overlooked the lower levels of the palace and the imperial planes below. When she’d first arrived there had been a table and chairs setup there facing the windows which were now gone. The bed in the centre of the room was simple by Altean standards: large, plain, with a single thin sheet and a single pillow arranged precisely on top of it. She then found the source of the noise. The table and chair had been moved into a corner where they would have been invisible to anyone entering the room. A fine tea set had been placed on the table with two cups, a small plate of cakes, and a still steaming pot of tea. She met eyes with the intruder sat in the chair.

Zarkon had a sense of humour, even if Allura didn’t appreciator it. The swirl of dark tattoos across the man’s chest marked him as a half born, but she could tell even without: his silver hair and the faint glow from his cheeks were an unmistakeable sign. The slave was half Altean. She couldn’t guess if it was meant as a courtesy or an insult, but there was no possibility it was accidental.

Allura had know long before this diplomatic mission had begun that this was something she may have to deal with. The Galra notion of hospitality was vastly different from the more refined Altean sensibilities she’d always known, and there was no area more disparate than this. An Altean noble guest might expect to find a few staff laid on in their chambers: to fetch things, clean, prepare food and so on. The Galra custom was far more base and bestial: to instead provide a slave that a guest should use sexually. To the Galra this was no different than the food and drink served at the opening ceremony to the diplomatic summit: simply another service provided to high-station people to make their stay more comfortable. And Allura knew that declining this service would be no less improper than declining any other.

She hadn’t moved since she first rounded the corner and seen him there but now adjusted her posture, letting the surprise drain from her face and instead donning a mask of disinterested appraisal. She placed her back-scratcher-turned-cudgel down on a small table to her side, she was in no danger here.

Her intruder was sprawled lazily in the seat, slouched down low in the formal upright chair with one leg crossed easily over the other. His elbow sat on the chair’s arm, and supported his head with a fist on the temple. His silver hair was strewn all about him, falling in untied cascades down his shoulders to pool about his waist. He was nude except for the circular golden circlet that wrapped round his neck. His face was relaxed, almost welcoming, and his amber eyes met hers directly. He seemed confident and very sure of his position for someone sitting naked in a room where he did not belong.

Most Galra men were broad and hulking: blunt instruments designed to realize their will through brutish forward momentum. But this slave was different. Perhaps it was genetic, or perhaps his master has sculpted him for less Galra tastes, but he was instead lithe and supple; his muscles suggested a tightly coiled spring or a razor sharp spear, honed to perfection. His lavender skin was like like beaten bronze, burnished by sweat in the Galra summer, each groove and rise highlighted in specular reflection and pulled taught over his body.

His golden eyes were framed in a hint of kohl and fixed directly on Allura, staring intensely and unblinkingly as they had since she’d first rounded the corner. His gaze never left her own but he still seemed to be taking her all in, imperiously inspecting her, her hair, her dress, taking a measure of her as if this were _his_ room, and she was the unexpected addition. Allura was irritated despite herself and stared back at him until her eyes ached and stung. The man finally blinked, slowly and deliberately, then let the faintest smile play across his lips. Allura felt like he could have stared for much longer, and had a nagging feeling that he was merely playing with her: making it obvious how little he cared for their impromptu staring contest. How a man in his position could have any pretensions of disinterest was beyond her, did he have no idea who was the slave and who was the master here?

He shifted for the first time, moving slightly more upright to place a flat hand of each arm of the chair, and Allura finally noticed what she should probably have looked for first. She could now see between his open legs, and found the first piece of indisputable of proof of his Galra heritage. Allura had been with a few men before and, at 26 years old, considered herself to be as worldly as a woman her age aught to be. But this was unlike anything she’d seen before. In her experience Altean men had been quite neat, aesthetically pleasing, a single shaft running straight and simple for a handful of inches and terminating in the usual way. The slave was far more intimidating: several shades darker than the rest of him, with ridges and groves visible even while it was slack. The head seemed to rear up even while stationary, and there was a hint of a flare around its rim. It looked dangerous.

Allura tried to get a grip of herself: standing in her own bedchambers with a fully nude defenceless slave, and she was thinking that his _penis_ looked “ _dangerous"._ What did that even mean? It was those eyes of his, still staring into her, seeming to pierce deeper by the moment. His gaze still hadn’t broken from her and she was starting to feel hemmed in inside her own skull. She tried to tell herself that this was a perfectly natural reaction: she’d been confronted in her own room by a stranger, that she was expected to sleep with. A moment ago she’d been focused on the politicking of the last few days, and had completely forgotten that this”courtesy _"_ was going to be imposed upon her at some point. It was totally fine to be caught off balance, she just needed to re-assert her position in this relationship.

She closed her eyes and took brief refuge in her own head. She would simply turn around, go to the bathroom, drink a glass of water to calm her head, splash a little more on her , then return and ask the man to leave. It might be impolite to refuse the Galra hospitality, but she couldn’t have been the first Altean to do so. Why should she be held to the tasteless customs of the Galra? It was bad enough that she had to eat their wretched food and hear their ghastly music.

The slave must have seen her start turning to leave as he nonchalantly turned his hand and beckoned her closer. A flash of prickly electric rage shot up Allura’s spine at the unmitigated gall of this slave. Who in hell did he think he was? To beckon the heir apparent of the Altean Commonwealth, when he was in such a fragile position? She felt something inside her snap as indignation had carried her half way across the room before she was even aware of it, and in another moment she was stood before him, holding tightly to his neck ring. Her eyes met his again, and the expression of victorious nonchalance was insufferable. He’d gotten a rise from her and he knew it. She pulled him bodily from the chair, and threw him to fall on the floor at the edge of the bed.

He began to lift himself from the floor before Allura strode over and pushed him by the crown of his head back down a little too hard. He stayed stationary as she hitched up the gossamer skirts of her pastel dress, and didn’t try to move as she thumbed off her underwear and stepped out of it. Allura grasped a handful of his hair and looked down to meet his eyes a final time. It could have been a different man looking up at her: his eyes had melted in supplication, and his once prideful mouth now hung open, purple tongue pushed out.

Good.

Allura held his head in place, swinging her hips forward to press his head back against the bed and squeezed her thighs a little to cut off any escape, though no attempt from him was made. She could feel the warmth of his smooth skin against hers and the slight shifting as his lips, mouth, and tongue began to move. Slowly at first, each motion a twitching inquest in how he should proceed. He felt for her responses, listened out to half caught gasps and low, close-mouthed groans and gradually found exactly what Allura needed: where, how fast, how deep. Allura felt her indignant fury at the slave give way to steadily building waves of pleasure as she pushed him tighter against here. She dropped the front of her skirts over his head, hiding his head completely as she lent forward to ball up fists of the light duvet and drew a sharp breath through her teeth. He was very good at this.

She started slightly as she felt his hands around her ankles, but put up no resistance as they slowly slid up her bare legs. His deft fingers traced trails across her inner thighs, and they made their way to hold behind her and draw her harder against his mouth. Allura let out a shuddering gasp and looked down hazily. The man’s torso was hidden completely beneath her skirts and his hands still held her tightly, all masked completely from view by cloth. Her skirts stopped just short of his hips, and she could see his tense muscular legs kneeling beneath her. Where they met - now taught and upright - was the potency she had previously scarcely been able to believe.

If it had looked dangerous before, now it seemed actively threatening. It throbbed with a heavy pressure that brought each groove and vein into stark relief. It was now several shades darker still, and had probably doubled in size; the head was definitely encircled with concentric flairs that simultaneously seemed to ward and entice her. His whole body moved as one, and each movement of his mouth was mirrored at his hips, teasing a thing stream of clear liquid from the tip to drizzle down the length.

Looking down was too much for Allura. She whipped round to face forward in an attempt to regain control, but it was too late. Every muscle in her body tensed as she clamped down hard on his head, feeling pointed ears flattened against his head. His movements slowed and became more deliberate, as her perspective shrunk down to just the electric fire that coursed through her skin. She lost her surroundings, her sense, even her own name, and waves washed over her from her core out. She even lost him, no longer feeling him as anything other than as a source of sensation.

Then, all at once, her vision returned, and she thought once again with perfect clarity. She held herself up on quivering limbs, bent over the edge of the bed, panting, with a sweat drenched slave between her legs. She pulled her waist back, but didn’t dismount, only stared straight ahead for a moment; trying to recall why exactly she’d ended up in this situation. He still held her, also breathing heavily, but he didn’t move a muscle. She glanced back down, finding her view was completely different now her rage-induced state of in-sensibility had passed. Allura touched his head through the material of her skirt, pushing him down and away so she could step back easily.

Now she did what she should have done ten minutes go: she strode into the unlit bathroom without looking back. She grasped the sink in the dark, sipped at a glass of water, splashed a little more water on her hands and face, all the while glancing back at the sliver of light from the door. Chill waves of embarrassment and shame washed over her at being goaded into such indecorous activities. She’d not reacted so badly to provocation in years. She wasn’t 18 any more, she couldn’t make such rash decisions at the first hint of impropriety. What would happen if someone was rude to her during the diplomatic summit? Presumably not a direct repeat of tonight _._ But if she still had the capability for such asinine reactions…

She took one last deep breath and went out to ask the man to leave but the room was now empty; if only Allura’s memory could be cleared so easily

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going forward this is probably going to alternate between Shiro and Allura, taking one chapter each


End file.
